I explained that I was writing an article for The Saturday Evening Post. Under the circumstances he thought there could be no objection, and led the way. The library was found to occupy handsome quarters on the street front of the third floor, the ceiling and walls done in panelled oak, and the latter ranged with glass-enclosed bookcases, a large refectory table in the center of the room, and in one corner a piano. A man was playing the piano and two other men stood beside him. All this was visible through the glass doors, but the doors were locked.
The secretary rapped and the man standing nearest the door stuck his head out and demanded, "What do you want?" We said that we should like to enter.
"They want to come in, Harmony," the man at the door addressed the pianist. "Is it all right?"
"They want to come in?" Harmony enquired. "We wish to look at the books," I explained. "Oh, they want to look at the books, Harmony," the man at the door relayed.
"Oh, books! Sure, let 'em in," said Harmony.
"He is running over the songs of his new show
[214]
